How To Clear A Traffic Jam

You might be surprised to know

which little things bring you to mind:

folding laundry, defiantly turning

the socks within themselves,

hearing your rebuke, warning me

the elastic will get stretched out;

finding crude homemade ceramics

at a yard sale, remembering

how proud you were of your

oddly spiked vase the size of

an umbrella stand,

watching an old Cadillac going by,

giggling to myself

at your amusement when I hopped

into yours, commanding “Home James!”;

walking past a shoe store

displaying boots with 6-inch heels,

and seeing your 6 foot 2 inch self

testing them out while you brag

“I love being tall!”;

pulling out my wedding photos

to show my newly out grandson

that you stood in for my father,

telling him your joke

that you have a daughter a

year older than yourself.

But lately, every time I brush my hair,

the sorrow pricks my heart.

I hear in my head

your instructions

while I sat in your salon.

You advised me I can’t clear a traffic jam

by shoving all the cars forward.

“Start at the bottom,” you told me

as you gently brushed my hair.

“Clear the bottom tangles first,

then you can brush your hair smoothly.”

Then the never ending sadness surfaces,

at how little I appreciated your

unwavering love while you were here,

how I failed to recognize your pain,

the pain I caused, in my juvenile naivete,

when I cluelessly declared people like you

were sick in the head,

and later,

my derelict failure to admit the truth

you so desperately needed to hear from me,

that there was nothing “wrong” with you,

that you were perfect.

You ARE perfect.

And when HIV then AIDS took you

from this world,

I didn’t even know that it was too late,

until it was too late.

​ Naida Lavon

For Robert Hanson

(1954-1991)

​ May 6, 2026